Authors: Mick Foley
The show did a phenomenal 5.4 rating in the Nielsens. As I’d hoped, many of the new viewers stayed tuned to our show, and we started to defeat our southern adversaries with greater and greater frequency. A year later, our show set an all-time record with an 8.1 rating-up a full 50 percent in a year. The basketball game on TNT, stocked with spoiled multimillionaires, did a 1.3.
In the remaining three weeks leading up to the May Over the Edge Pay-Per-View, I decided to tweak Dude’s image. If Dude was going to be Vince’s hand-picked corporate champion, then I felt I needed to look like it. In a move that was very reminiscent of the psychology behind the ECW Hardcore Christmas, I once again strove to eliminate anything that the fans had found admirable about me. The hair was slicked back into a neat ponytail, and I borrowed one of Vince’s clapper sports jackets and a tie. I probably should have cut the hair and shaved, but I did come forth with a quality prop-a dental flipper of my two front teeth. I hadn’t worn these false teeth in so many years that I had difficulty speaking with them, but when I did, it was pure heat. Front teeth? Now that’s selling out. Sporting a pair of eyeglasses that were slightly slipping down my amputated auditory appendage and clutching a folded copy of the Wall Street Journal, the “new corporate kiss-ass” Dude made his debut in Baltimore. Sounding like a dull college professor or Dean Douglas, the Dude addressed the crowd.
“It seems that as of late, I have been having trouble with my identity. But now with the gracious help of Vince McMahon, I have found out who I am. I am a speaker of four languages. I am a student of American history and a reader of Greek tragedy. I am a leader of men and a lover of women, as well as the toughest SOB in the World Wrestling Federation. As I’m Dude Love-your next World Wrestling Federation champion.”
Vince beamed with pride as he announced the special guests for the upcoming Pay-Per-View. First, Pat Patterson was announced as the special guest ring announcer. Next, the esteemed Gerald Brisco was brought out as the special guest timekeeper. Finally, Vince gave a huge buildup for the guest referee, ending with “Here he comes right now.” To Vince’s embarrassment, there was no referee forthcoming. The crowd started to laugh. Vince tried once again, with a second “Here he comes.” Again, no referee. Again, audience laughter. Things weren’t looking too good for the corporate team. “Well, I guess I’ll have to drag him out myself,” Vince yelled before storming up the ramp.
I small-talked in midring with the Stooges, before Pat Patterson picked up the mike and, in his eloquent style, introduced the world to the special referee. “Ladies and gentlemen, he’s the best there is, the best there was, and the best there ever will be-Vince McMahon.” With that, Vince came bounding down the ramp, sporting a referee’s shirt that must have been eight sizes too small. In an attempt to show off his impressive physique, Vince was wearing a shirt so small that my son Dewey would have had trouble squeezing into it. The deck was clearly stacked against Austin, and the time seemed ripe for a new champion. A corporate champion. A kiss-ass champion. I was ready.
I’ve mentioned before that I consider Mind Games, against Shawn Michaels, to be my best match. The future King of the Ring was probably the most emotional. Over the Edge, with Austin, however, was undoubtedly the most fun to watch. Don’t get me wrong, I got the hell beaten out of me and I was so blown up (out of breath) that I must have been running on something other than oxygen for the last ten minutes. But I have never before or since seen such a reaction from the boys as they watched the replay the following day. Smiles and laughter for twenty minutes as they watched our elaborate twenty-minute epic drama unfold. Thinking about it now, it’s a small miracle that things went as well as they did.
In the World Wrestling Federation, we are often allowed to do third-party bookings, which means, basically, that we are allowed to work on our own time for other promoters. In the past year, that has usually meant signing autographs at memorabilia shops, malls, department stores, and car lots. But until promoters learned that wrestlers were nicer, cheaper, and more popular than overpriced “real” athletes, third-party bookings usually consisted of wrestling at small venues for large payoffs.
I had four days off before my showdown with Austin. Resting up probably would have been the wisest thing, but I just had trouble turning down ten weeks’ worth of “Memphis payoffs” for one night in a sweaty high school gym. Hey, it might not have been glamorous, but at least it was profitable. So instead of concentrating on my big match and resting up for a cardiac machine like Stone Cold, I wrestled in four shows in three days in the boonies of Ohio, and then drove 500 miles to Milwaukee. I was exhausted and questioning my intelligence when I showed up. Somehow, we pulled off a classic.
Pat Patterson came out first as my announcer and proceeded to read off a long, scripted, ridiculous series of introductions. I came out to the Dude Love theme, nattily attired in sports coat and flowered blue pastel tights. I was dancing just a little but not enough to ruin my corporate image. I had never understood why a retro hippie would go out to a faux Bee Gees disco number, but now when I threw in the corporate image, it was completely confusing. I guess the Dude was a disco-dancing corporate hippie. Nonetheless, Patterson continued, announcing my opponent.
The bell rang, and we started the match with a little bit of “believe it or not” scientific wrestling. Don’t worry, not too much. Just a couple of reversals that led to a cover and a quick one-count by Vince. The fast count earned Vince the ire of the Undertaker, who had been brought down by Austin to watch his back. For the rest of the match, Vince played it straight, but by virtue of his mannerisms, made it clear who he was pulling for. I even saw the Adam’s apple bob up and down a couple of times when the Dude kicked out of two close pinfall attempts.
A few minutes into the match, I took the advantage on Austin. I was choking him outside the ring when Vince suddenly got wide-eyed and ran over to Patterson. “This is just a reminder,” boomed Pat’s voice, which still carried a French Canadian accent even after over thirty years in the States, “that this match is a no-disqualification match.”
“That’s not fair,” Jim Ross informed the home viewers. “This match doesn’t have any stipulations.” Austin eventually took over, but the Dude used a diabolical ballshot to send the champ to the outside. As I was putting the boots to Austin halfway up the entrance aisle, Vince got that wide-eyed look again and sprinted down the aisle, and around the ring to Patterson. A moment later, Pat was on the mike.
“Just a reminder, in this match, falls count anywhere in the building.”
“Oh, that’s great,” said a sarcastic J. R., “I guess they’re just making up the rules as they go along.”
The impromptu falls count anywhere provision gave us the excuse to work our way over to where a series of parked cars made up the Over the Edge set. We spent the next few minutes liberally destroying the already destroyed vehicles, including a Dude Love backdrop that saw Austin smash a front windshield. At one point, with Austin prorte in the aisle, the Dude ascended two cars, which were stacked precariously on top of one another. I dove off the hood looking for the elbow, but when Austin moved, I uncharacteristically cheesed out and landed partly on my feet instead of on my hip. The fight continued into the ring, until Austin finally gained the upper hand and caught me with a vicious chair to the face. At that point, the match should have been over, but Vince refused to make the count. Realizing that a screwing was at hand, Stone Cold got in Vince’s face, while I came to my senses and picked up a steel chair that Patterson slid me. I came charging and brought the chair down. Hard, but Austin moved, and my boss took a shot so hard that it literally knocked the caps on his teeth off. I caught him with the claw, and before he even went down, Patterson slid in as an apparent substitute ref and attempted to count Austin out. Before he could get to three, however, the Undertaker slid him outside and promptly chokeslammed him. Now it was Gerald Brisco’s turn to slide in, attempt a ludicrous three count, and get pulled out and chokeslammed through a table. I got up and turned into Austin’s stunner, and Steve made the count himself with Vince’s very hand.
The next night, I came out on Raw with an eye that was visibly swollen and discolored from my chair to the face the previous night. What followed was a memorable verbal interaction with Mr. McMahon, which left the Dude without his pride and without his job.
Dude Love had been fired, Cactus Jack had retired, leaving only one persona who was still eligible for a paycheck. That’s right, the return of Mankind, who had last been seen almost six months earlier. I’d like to say that Mankind’s return was an instant success, but in reality, it was met with the type of apathy usually reserved for Al Snow matches (yes!).
Running a weekly two-hour wrestling program head to head against well-financed competition is exciting and often makes for remarkable television, but the speed with which issues are rushed sometimes leaves creative casualties behind. Unfortunately, Mankind was one of those casualties. I had just completed a very emotional interview with Vince McMahon. I’m not saying I was really fired, but I thought it was a good representation of reality. Not everyone can hit his boss when he wants to. Usually, the boss holds the ball and the employee has to play by the rules. I had been embarrassed by my boss on national television, and it felt like there was a part of everyone that could feel for me. When I came running out just an hour later as Mankind, it was almost as if I were wearing a hospital gown and pulling an IV stand behind me. Mankind has gone on to incredible heights since that poorly received run in, but at the time the rapid character changes led to credibility problems that would be tough to overcome.
I had been tentatively scheduled to face Stone Cold at the June King of the Ring Pay-Per-View in a special Hell in a Cell match. Hell in a Cell was a match that was devised eight months earlier as a special attraction for the Shawn Michaels-Undertaker feud. The cell referred to an ominous-looking sixteen-foot-high steel mesh structure with a matching ceiling. The cell was so large that, unlike other cages, it literally surrounded the ring. The first cell match had been outstanding-probably the best match of 1997-and the feeling was that a sequel would do big business. Unfortunately, as I learned with the aid of a phone call, the feeling was that Foley vs. Austin III wouldn’t.
Vince Russo broke the news, and as he did, I could feel my heart sink. I knew that Mankind wasn’t over, but I was hoping that the office wouldn’t catch on to the current apathy for a while. Russo’s comments made me realize they had. “Cactus, we are just concerned that the audience won’t buy another match with you and Steve.”
How could I disagree? At this point I didn’t think they would buy a match with me against anyone. Who knows-maybe a Mankind vs. Al Snow match with a loser must wrestle Pete Gas for a year stipulation wasn’t far away. I decided to verify my intuition by asking Russo, “So, I’m definitely out of the cell match,” I said with a whole lot of sadness in my voice.
“No, no,” an excited Russo corrected me, “you’re still in the cell, it’s just that you’ll be in there with the Undertaker. Austin will wrestle Kane for the title.”
I was overjoyed, but minutes after hanging up, I was plagued with feelings of certain failure in the cell. “I’m screwed,” I thought. “I suck inside a cage. Undertaker has a broken foot. No one cares about me, and besides, was the world really calling out for a sixth Mankind-Undertaker Pay-Per-View encounter?” At that point, I had no idea that it would be the most talked-about match of my career.
A couple of weeks before the show, I made the tactical error of stopping by the World Wrestling Federation corporate offices in Stamford, Connecticut. It wasn’t stopping there that was the error, it was whom I brought with me, the legendary bastion of common sense, Terry Funk. We were on our way to Providence from a show in Connecticut, and we decided to stop by the office for a workout. Titan Towers probably has the most well-equipped gym of any office building in the country. After I finished punishing my pectorals and bombing my biceps, I called and asked the home video department if I could take a look at Bad Blood, the Pay-Per-View during which last year’s Hell in a Cell had taken place. I sat in a little office with the Funker as we watched Hell in a Cell unfold. “Damn,” I was thinking as I sat there watching Michaels and the Undertaker tear down the house, “there’s no way we’re going to live up to this.”
There was one part in particular that had been impressive. It consisted of a frantic Michaels climbing outside of the cell to get away from the unstoppable ‘Taker. He got to the top, but there was nowhere to go, and ‘Taker had wreaked havoc all over the top of the cell. Michaels had actually been backdropped and slammed on the ceiling, and I winced at the sight of the 200-pound Heartbreak Kid’s body bouncing off the steel mesh. Finally, Michaels was dangling precariously off the side of the cage and ended up dropping onto the table from about the eight-foot mark in a scene that would live on for the next year via video highlights.
Terry and I just sat there for a few minutes, without saying a word. Finally, Terry spoke up. “Cactus,” he mumbled, “that one is going to be difficult to beat.”
“I know,” I agreed. “Plus I’m a hundred pounds heavier than Shawn-I just can’t do some of the things in that cage that he can.” Once again, we sat in silence for a couple of minutes. I was the one to break the silence. “What do you think I should do?” I asked my mentor, friend, and hero.
His answer would help make me professionally and damn near break me physically. “I think you ought to start the match on top of the cage.” You’d think I would know better than to listen to Terry Funk.
We continued to talk on the way to the show, but it was mostly joking around. “Goddamn, Cac,” the Funker said, laughing, “maybe you should let him throw you off the top of the cage.”
“Yeah,” I shot back, “then I could climb back up-and he could throw me off again.” Man, that was a good one, and we were having a good time thinking of completely ludicrous things to do inside, outside, and on top of the cage. After a while I got serious and said quietly to Terry, “I think I can do it.”